Absolution for the Absent
by L'Arc en Coeur
Summary: Dealing with the world economic crisis, Alfred is approached by a figure from his past, Arthur Kirkland. The years of absence has shaped their relationship, but maybe some fragment of love can be spared from the feelings of animosity. Alfred X Arthur.


Alfred towered over the stacks of papers that lay strewn across his floor and his table. So much work needed to be done, especially lately, but he hadn't time for any of it.

"Damn it all!" He slammed his hand against the desk in utter frustration. "I only try my best—try to do what I think might help or what I think might be right—but I always get bit on the ass either way!"

With a single gesture, he threw everything that rest on the desk onto the floor and stormed out of his chair. He paced angrily and reached for a bottle of scotch that rest on the higher shelves of his bookcase. Without a moment's thought, he popped the bottle and drank deeply. The warmth radiated as the rejuvenating elixir slipped past his tongue and worked its way down his body. Muscles now relaxing, Alfred felt his body grow suddenly weak and backed up against the door to his study. He fell against it and slid down until he was planted firmly at the foot of the door. Face in his palm, he glanced over at his right hand which gripped the scotch bottle tightly.

"Look what I've become," he told himself, "nothing more than a worthless piece of shit."  
The bottle slid out of his hand and rolled a few centimeters across the ground before it came to a stop. He had no energy to scream profanities or burst into torrents of rage, but resigned himself to mourning. His heart wrenched and fell deep into the pit of his stomach as he gripped his chest trying to deal with his frustration. His vision grew hazier, though no less bright, and his eyes felt hot. He bit his lip to keep from making any noise, but his lips quivered against the pressure to cry out to the world and call for help. He felt cornered as the world's weight fell on his shoulders once more. This had happened once before and the gravity of the past event had been many times greater, but Alfred did not want to carry the burden and he knew this early on. Footsteps from beyond the door grew closer and Alfred, in a panic, wiped his tearing eyes and commenced steadying his sobs. He rose from the floor and paced the room and picked up the scotch bottle then continued pacing once more. His fingers beat against the neck of the glass bottle as he listened intently to the direction of the footsteps. They were on the same floor, but drew further off. Perhaps the visitor had gone through a hallway, Alfred was not certain. Hurriedly, he took another swig of scotch and swallowed then let out a sigh, tinged with the warmth from alcohol. He closed his eyes and lost himself in his thoughts until he heard a faint voice calling him in the distance. At first, it seemed to be the voice of some misguided apparition, but it grew louder as the visitor drew closer. Soon, Alfred could recognize the voice.

"Alfred. Alfred!" The voice called, "Alfred, are you there?"

Alfred let out a sigh and took another mouthful of alcohol then wiped his mouth roughly and exited, bottle in hand. He moved silently around the corner to meet the unwelcome visitor but caught himself mid-stride when he glimpsed at his anonymous caller.

His hair was slightly unkempt and was a greyer tone of Alfred's own golden locks. His eyes were green and his eyebrows thick and slanted upward with concern.

"A-Arthur," Alfred called slightly tipsy, "it's been so long."

The Englishman turned and let out a faint smile that vanished as soon as it had appeared, "You had me worried for a moment."

Arthur looked at Alfred's blue eyes and noted the redness and inflammation of his eyelids, "Were you…crying?"

The American's shoulders arched back, "N-no. Allergies. Spring, you know…it brings problems."

Accepting the response, Arthur shrugged, "Yeah, I understand."

Alfred's mouth curled into a small ambiguous smile. It was one filled with love and despair.

"You don't look too well yourself," He said with a quiver in his voice. "Are you feelin' ok, Arthur?"

"Yeah, it's just been hard you know? Things got so expensive so soon. I had to sell my house in order to feed myself," His voice broke momentarily, but he recomposed himself. "I haven't had decent work in three years…to think we're only in the downward fall. But, I'm glad to see that you haven't been put out of house. You fare well, I hope?"

Trying to hide the scotch bottle, Alfred replied, "So-so. I have my ways of coping. But I have a hell of a ways to go with all the paper work that floods my study and I have to think of some kind of economic recovery plan. It's much harder than I had wanted. This time it's not just for America, I have to do it for the world."

He glanced at his shoe and then changed the subject, "How's Kiku doing?"

"Not well. Market's at a stand still, so he's not shipping out much technology. There's a huge surplus exports that remain on Japanese shores, but with no buyers, they've dug themselves a hole. He's suffering a lot because of it. Can't make much money, got laid off just like me."

"I'm sorry…"

"It's ok. We all have to sacrifice something."

Alfred could not return an appropriate response. Arthur's visits to his house were often short and unfeeling, but today, he saw Arthur come to him asking for something subliminally. He hesitated, his lips curling ready to spill his pain upon his friend against his will, but held in his feelings with a decisive swallow.

Arthur sighed, "Alfred,"

"What?"

"I wanted to warn you. Yao's really itching to get the money you owe him back. Be ready, I don't want you to be in the same position I am."

Alfred let out a disgusted grunt, "The son of a bitch, I told him I'd get it to him in time. Well, it can't be helped. Thanks, Arthur."

The Englishman smiled, "Well, I'll be off I suppose."

He turned back to the stairs and proceeded down the first few steps. He failed to notice the footsteps that rushed behind him, but Alfred's voice stopped him from descending any further.

"Hey! Arthur, where are you staying right now?"

With a desperate smile, Arthur replied, "At Francis' house. He's letting me stay over, but of course, at a price. The horny git. Makes me dress up and do the most degrading things, but anything for a home, right?"

His face grew pink as he talked about his experience, but he continued to the door as soon as he was done.

"Ah, wait! If it's that bad, you can stay here with me. I'm not doing so bad that I can't take in another."

"It's ok. I don't want to drag you into my problems." He did not look back.

"Please!"

Alfred threw his hands into the air, forgetting about the glass scotch bottle he had clung to so desperately. It slipped past his fingertips and sailed through the air. He gasped and tried to reach after it, leaning over the handrail that kept him from falling three stories. His arm extended as far as it could, but the brown glass bottle was just out of reach. It continued through its arc and shattered into the wall that skirted the curved staircase.

Arthur let out a little cry and skipped a stair at the sound of the smashing glass. He looked up the staircase with wide, startled eyes and saw the broken bottle and inviting, caramel liquid cascade down the stairs.

"Y-you've been drinking?" He looked to the American with violent disgust accompanied with a biting sense of parental failure. "Why?"

Alfred's gaze moved elsewhere, but his voice as firm, "I told you I had my ways."

Arthur moved up a few steps and readied his mouth to chastise, but Alfred returned immediately with a stronger voice.

"No! Arthur, stop it! Stop treating me like your kid. You forget that I've been living on my own for years and that I'm no longer yours. Do yourself a favor and stop worrying so much about me. Maybe then you can do yourself a favor," then his voice dipped in volume, "and stop my worrying as well."

The Englishman silenced himself and gave a despondent smile, "I'm sorry if I've caused you pain."

"You used to do it even when I was a kid. I'm really tired of this shit, Arthur. If you're going to be some kind of figure in my life, then you ought to be more present. If you can't be bothered, then get the fuck out and never show your face here again." His voice began to seethe with anger.

"Then...what do I do?"

The American tilted his head and took off his glasses to wipe them. There was something condescending in the way he stood and spoke, but Arthur knew it was all meant with love.

"Don't go to that bastard Francis' tonight. Do me that much. Give me the chance to feel what it's like to have you there for me when I need you the most. Even if it's only for one night, do me the favor and let me wake up knowing that you won't be gone."

"To make you happy, I'll do anything."

Alfred undressed himself. His silk dress shirt slid smoothly from his skin and collected itself on the floor. He reached across his chest and massaged his aching shoulder. Stress had eaten away at him and by the end of the day, he was drained of any energy. With a lazy motion, he unlatched his belt and let his slacks fall gently to the floor. With a lithe movement, he stepped from his pants into silky night pants then proceeded to button on a matching shirt. He had only made it halfway up the shirt when he gave up. Without another moment to spare, he threw himself onto the bed and curled into a ball.

"So not worth the pain," He told himself, "dealing with Arthur. He's just not worth the pain."

His eyes had closed as he readied to sleep, but heartache traveled through his blood and infected his body. His eyes grew hot and tears pooled at the sides of his eyes.

"Why does he have to be that way?" He thought. "Why is he always hurting me and why does he always walk away as if it never mattered? Why doesn't he tell me anything about himself, yet asserts himself in my life like it was still his responsibility. I hate him. Arthur…I hate him."

He wiped the drops from his eyes and buried his face in his pillow then unleashed a muffled scream. He kicked his feet in an infantile display of dissatisfaction, but before he was aware, Alfred lost himself to his dreams.

The night grew hot. Alfred kicked the covers from his body, but nothing cooled his burning body. He woke with drenched hair and a slick sweaty body and lazily picked himself from the sticky bed.

"Disgusting…" He sighed, but had no conviction to leave the comfort of his bed to take a shower.

He threw himself on his back and rolled his eyes, "I hate seasonal changes…and global warming."

With another release, he turned over and curled up ready to fall asleep once more. As moments passed, Alfred's consciousness grew fainter. He rolled across his bed, but felt he had rolled to far into some indent in the mattress. He shifted up, but only grew more aware of the anomaly in his bed. It took a few moments, but he had mustered up the will to open his eyes. A slim leg had placed itself on the side of his bed. It was bare and pale and smooth, donning only a pair of shorts.

His heart beat violently as blood rushed to his brain and called his lethargic reflexes to action. He moved back and let out a cry that was silenced by a hand that came from above.

"It's me." Arthur said.

The Englishman lifted his gentle hand from the American's mouth so that he could speak.

"What are you doing, Arthur?"

The Englishman looked at his knee which encroached on Alfred's territory, "I thought about what you had said."

The American propped himself on his elbows, his shirt falling from his body leaving his smooth and dampened shoulders bare, "What?"

Arthur climbed into Alfred's bed and lay beside his friend, "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you were growing up."

Alfred's heart started beating violently and it fell deep into his chest.

"I don't know what I was thinking when I left you, but I had never meant to hurt you."

His breathing grew quick and shallow.

"I want you to know that I'll always be here for you," Arthur moved across the bed on top of Alfred. He placed his knee gently between Alfred's thighs.

The American let out a little gasp, but Arthur silenced him with a gentle motion of his hand. He had always been the one to leave Alfred speechless.

"I want you to believe that I'm here for you," His eyes grew glossy, but nothing rained from them, "So," He leaned into the American and pressed his bare chest against his partially clothed counterpart's and, with a whisper, left the conclusion to his sentence ringing in the American's ear, "I'll give myself to you."

Alfred's breathing was broken and hesitant and he trembled under Arthur's weight.

"I-I," Arthur stuttered trying to suppress the emotions that plagued his heart.

His hands moved gently across Alfred's chest and proceeded to unbutton his nightgown. Another deft motion and the silk shirt lay on the side of the bed.

The Briton's body trembled as he lowered himself onto Alfred; inexperience hindered his performance and left him with little confidence.

Alfred gave a sympathetic smile and pushed Arthur over gently then crawled over him. He placed his knee gently at Arthur's groin so as to not startle him and bring him to tears. And without hesitation, the American brought his weight onto Arthur. He let out a soft gasp as Alfred's body touched parts of his own that had not been discovered. A soft kiss was planted on his Arthur's cheek and he blushed as his body heated. His breathing raced and his heart rate elevated. He arched his back as Alfred stroked his bare chest and let out a small whimper that went generally unnoticed. Alfred's fingers danced across his torso and shifted down his stomach and past his navel. The American watched the Briton's face intently. His eyes were closed and his head was turned away as if he dreaded to watch what was to become of his 'vital regions'.

"It won't hurt." Alfred assured as he invaded Arthur's ears, neck, and shoulders. His mouth, surprisingly smooth despite the day's events, claimed everything for himself and when everything was under America's name, he moved to Arthur's lips and rained his rule heavily upon them. Arthur was hesitant at first, but opened himself to Alfred after much coaxing from the other's warm tongue. It was a coherent mess. Wet, warm, passionate, intimate. Everything. It was everything thrown together into a single event. Alfred continued to play inside Arthur's mouth, invading whatever left he had not already claimed while simultaneously moving further down Arthur's body to begin his assault on the southern front. Arthur kicked restlessly as Alfred played with his body, but Alfred's thighs held him in place. The American slid the Briton's shorts from under him then released himself from the constraints of his silky night pants. The two bore everything to each other with no shame in ownership of the other's flesh. Alfred cupped his partner him and palpated his sensitive area with a little force. There was longing in his heart, a passionate longing as if he was barred from something he had desired for years, but these emotions—these emotions—they were newly sparked and quickly engulfed every aspect of his cognitive self. Everything that was processed in his mind related to Arthur—in that moment, his world revolved around Arthur. He wanted nothing more than to be one with him. Arthur gasped for air at Alfred's sudden advance, a small feminine sort of sound that he made as he retreated into the pillow. Alfred grabbed a hold of him though, keeping him close to his chest. Arthur's head rest against Alfred's breast; the American's racing heartbeat made known to the other for the first time. Arthur blushed and grabbed a hold of Alfred's back to keep himself against his partner's torso. They brushed against each other roughly. Their chests expanding and contracting were at first nothing but dissonance, but within moments they were synchronized—dependent on each other for existence. If one failed to breathe, the other would hold onto whatever he had until the lost breath was taken. They were almost one being—almost.

"It won't hurt," Alfred said. "It won't hurt," He repeated.

Arthur pulled himself closer to Alfred, pulling down on the flesh that he had latched onto previously. Alfred danced around the submissive Briton and turned him on his stomach in a smooth motion. The Briton lay with his eyes slightly open; just enough to see his partner. Alfred came down on him again, harder than he had done before. Passion flared inside his chest and made his body hot and forced him to sweat. His damp, slick, shiny, body moved in on Arthur's 'vital region'. The Briton cringed and let out an agonizing cry. His fist clawed at the pillow as he gasped for air. He pulled his arm down, trying to pull himself away from his attacker, but Alfred took his hand and held it tightly. He leaned in and kissed Arthur on the cheek and wiped the tears that had formed out of pain. Alfred moved further, encroaching on more of Arthur's territory than the Briton had originally taken from him. The American grunted as he force himself into Arthur, and Arthur let out those small cries of first time agony. The American assaulted Arthur's back, kissing and biting wherever appropriate. He pressed his bare chest against the Briton's back and reached for his partner's chest and groin. He groped whatever he got a hold of gently rubbing and squeezing. His heart racing and retreating further into his chest. He closed his eyes as he let out sighs of desire, but continued with his work. His heart continued to accelerate and his breathing continued to quicken. Arthur's cries were soft at first, but they grew gradually louder and more passionate as Alfred moved further in, and then he released and let out one final indignant cry. Alfred smiled with pleasure and moved in on Arthur, continuing to assault his already battered neck. The Briton's heavy and tired breathing gave him endless delight. He rest his head against Arthur's shoulder solely for the pleasure of hearing him breathe helplessly as he advanced. Alfred continued to palpate Arthur's privates with more force, waiting for each cry from his partner. Alfred's breath grew heavy on Arthur's back and his heart beat as if it was seizing; he could feel it quivering as if he were an excited schoolgirl. And then, Alfred let out a soft, quivering wail as everything rushed from him in a final release. His body was drained of all energy and his thighs were weak with exhaustion. Alfred collapsed beside Arthur, even more drained that the Briton. The two looked at each other with quieted passion. Their testament of love had been given after many years of absence, betrayal, and heartache—but it was finally done. Their breathing slowly evened out and the two moved into the recesses of their own dreams safely cushioned in each other's arms.

This was the dance of the two loneliest men on the blessed Earth. Nothing mattered during the short time they were together—everything that was important or relevant happened behind closed doors. The cries that emanated from behind the solid walls would never be heard again.

The wave of morning came upon Alfred before he had pleased, but he rose anyway to face the day with a renewed outlook. The problems of the past seemed no more.

"Good morning, Arthur." He cried with a smile.

He turned his torso to look back. The sheets were strewn across the bed, but Arthur was not present. As usual, he had vanished, but this time Alfred was not troubled by his disappearance. He knew that he would always own a piece of the United Kingdom.


End file.
